


Light My Fire (c'mon baby)

by nirejseki



Series: Aflameverse [4]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychopaths, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Codependence, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 01:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14660688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: It's hot as hell in Mick's crappy apartment, but there's nowhere Leonard Snart would rather be than here.Even if Mickdoeskill people sometimes.(prequel to Aflame)





	Light My Fire (c'mon baby)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Could you maybe write Len and Mick's first time for the Aflameverse? 
> 
> An expansion of the line in Aflame: _he likes beer and he likes hookers (though not as much as he likes Snart, who he ends up fucking one day in the height of summer when Snart is practically melting with the heat, his limbs so liquid that he barely needs any coaxing to relax enough to let Mick in)_

Len isn't stupid, you know. 

He knows he's messed up - he's probably always been messed up, and only got more twisted up when his dad started hitting him (was it only after he went to prison that first time, or was it before? he can’t tell the difference between the truth and the stories he told himself anymore) and his mom died and then Lisa was born, all of the pieces of him that made him who he was being ripped apart inside into a million directions between his own needs and the needs of others, desperately wanting nothing more than to just _stop_ for a while. 

Maybe that's why he loves Mick so much.

He can't say so aloud, of course; if his dad ever found out Len was feeling an emotion, any emotion, he'd kick his ass, and if he found out it was something as soft as love he'd kick it harder, and by this point Len’s internalized it so hard that he’d kick his own ass for even feeling it before his dad ever got the chance.

But despite all that, it's true. 

Len loves Mick.

He loves him so much it scares him, sometimes.

It's an overwhelming sensation, his heart pounding, light-headed, fingers tingling and numb; that endless hole in Len's soul filled up by feelings that he can barely describe but knows with painful clarity that he can never unleash upon the world or else he'll turn out like Mick.

See, Len's gotten good at accepting the facts of life, no matter how bitter. 

Facts like: he was born poor and half-black and a Jew like his mother, and the world will never forgive him for any of those facts. 

Fact: He'll never own anything he didn't steal. 

Fact: He'll never do well enough for his dad to love him. 

Fact: Lisa will leave him one day, just like everyone else has. 

Fact: Mick kills people sometimes. 

It's just the way it is, you see.

Like he said, Len's not stupid - he knows perfectly well that hanging out with a guy that you know is a serial killer is all but equivalent to signing your name up to be one of his victims later on, especially when it's someone who kills as readily and dispassionately as Mick does, but he doesn't stop.

He can't stop. 

He _won't_ stop.

Mick saved Len's useless ass of a life, the first time they met, even though he didn't have anything he could get out of it, and that would be enough for some serious gratitude by itself. But Mick didn't stop there. He took Len in and started protecting him - sure, Len's glossing over the first few weeks or so, when Mick mostly batted him around like a dog’s chew-toy trying to make Len go away, but that's okay; it's hardly more than what Len's used to, and at any rate Len would take being beaten by Mick over the unpleasant leers of some of the other boys any day. But _after_ that, Mick started protecting him.

Len's never had someone protect him before. 

His dad, maybe, sometimes, but even Len isn't stupid enough not to realize that his dad was mostly just taking offense when people talked shit about Len or even went and hurt Len without asking. It's the last part that was key to his dad, the asking. The respect for his property. As long as they asked, Lewis didn't care. 

Mick cares. 

Mick wouldn’t let anyone hurt Len, not even if they asked. Not even if they offered him something good in exchange. Not _ever_.

Mick hunts down the assholes that hurt Len, sometimes, and he hurts them, instead. And sometimes they don't even have to make Len bleed for him to do it, like that security guard who'd accused Len of shoplifting without evidence (like Len'd be dumb enough to keep any merchandise on him after he saw the guy coming) and pulled him into a little room to wait for the police, except the police never came. 

Mick hates it when people touch his stuff.

_His_ stuff. Things he owns. 

Things like Len.

It gives Len a thrill down in his belly, thinking of it, knowing that Mick can count the things he cares for on one hand and that Len's on that infinitesimally small list.

Len's never belonged to anyone that cared, before Mick. Len's never _wanted_ to belong to anyone, before Mick.

Len never wants to belong to anyone else ever again. 

Not if he can have Mick.

And, yeah, he knows it's messed up. He knows it's unhealthy - codependent - dysfunctional - _crazy_ \- for him to be this attached to someone that kills people without so much as a smidgeon of remorse, but honestly Len's been around killers his whole life and he never felt the way he did about Mick about anyone, ever.

Probably for the best, that. He's pretty sure Mick would kill them if he did.

At least he doesn't seem to want to hurt Lisa. Len knows enough to be grateful of it, thankful; he knows Mick and Lisa don't like each other and that neither is much inclined to share. 

Lisa held Len's heart first - his responsibility from too young an age, his duty, dearly beloved but sometimes burdensome - but when Len thinks of leaving Mick, of being alone and unprotected and _unwanted_ by anyone, alone with his murders and his apathy and his desire to burn the whole world down, terror pools in his belly and makes him fight with Lisa like he hasn't in years, shouting and waving hands. 

She whispers to him in the dead of the night that Mick's scary, that she hates him, that he's going to kill Len one of these days, and she's probably right on all of those counts, but what she doesn't understand is it doesn't matter. 

Len hates the thought of not having Mick more than he loves his own life. 

He can't make Lisa any promises, only says that he'll try his best to see her grown up and away from their dad if nothing else - Lisa still loves Lewis with a child's love, but she's far more realistic than Len ever was and would prefer to love Lewis from a safe distance, preferably through prison bars - and that's the end of it, really. If Lisa can't convince Len to leave their dad, she definitely won't have any luck convincing him to leave Mick, and so she drops the point from then on. Len thinks that Mick notices, somehow, because his own distaste for her fades - not into fondness, because Mick doesn't like most of everything (except Len, he likes Len), but at least into a sort of long-suffering tolerance. 

Len goes to see Mick at his apartment every day he can get away from home. He hides the bruises he picks up from his dad - he can't let Mick kill him; for all that Len's starting to learn to hate Lewis, there's still a little boy in him that loves too much - and instead of a guest-gift he brings his increasingly refined skills. 

Len steals things - money, lighters, jewels, magazines - and presents them to Mick proudly, all for a kind word or the faintest look of pleasure, and if that makes him Mick's dog, like some people say, then Len doesn't care. 

Let him be Mick's dog, if only Mick will agree to keep him by his side forever. 

Len's content with that set-up.

Or at least he thinks he is, at first. 

It's the hottest part of summer today, and they're in Mick's shabby apartment as usual. Lisa's away with friends for the whole week - some school trip - and Len's so far past school that he's starting to forget the sound of bells. He doesn’t exactly has a job the way normal people define it, so it's not like he's got anywhere else to be but here.

Here, in this ratty old apartment with a barely-working air conditioner and a crappy old fan that Len bought himself because otherwise he’d probably die, a fan that makes endless stuttering noises that fade into the background as it turns.

As it is, he still can feel himself broiling from the inside out.

Now, it being hot’s enough of a reason for Len to be annoyed, but he usually isn’t when he’s with Mick, at Mick’s place. Even when it’s this stupid hot, as long as Mick’s around, some part of him is always content. 

But not today.

He's melting away on Mick’s couch, actually, watching the few bare hints of skin he permits himself to show, already red and sore from the heat, feels them start sticking to the leather seats, and he's - dissatisfied, for some reason. 

Something that's got nothing to do with weather, and all to do with the pretty brunette that waltzed out of Mick's room that morning with a wad of bills and an appraising eye that ran over Len sitting there waiting in the kitchen, making him flush red, and he doesn't even know why.

It's not like Len hasn't gone out (or rather, in) with whores before; his dad used to make Len wait outside his favorite brothel for him to finish, and Len made plenty of friends he probably oughten't have had at that age, and it's really just dumb luck that he turned out to be as good at thieving as he is, or else he might've considered turning a trick or two to make ends meet. It's no big deal. Mick likes 'em, too, likes 'em a lot. Len's always sure to point out the ones he knows best, the ones he knows are conscientious and clean and get themselves checked on the regular, the ones that won't let themselves be got in trouble or nothing, and he’s fine with that.

It's no big deal. 

And yet, Len finds himself sulking. It's stupid, of course - the girl's long gone, likely never to be seen again, since Mick gets bored easily and rarely repeats girls twice over. And it's not like they have anything else to do, really; the last job Len got for them (planned, actually, and his heart all but sung with joy when Mick smiled at him and called him 'boss', even if he was joking) went perfectly, not a trace of evidence left behind, and both of them sitting on nice large takes. 

Hell, it was even Len's idea to be lying low for a while, keep from doing any more jobs or spending the whole thing until any trace of police attention fades. Mick's spending no more than he usually does, so it's not like Len can protest on that score. 

Assuming he wants to protest, which he _doesn't_ , because there's nothing to protest. And while he's at it, he's not sulking because of that girl, or because of Mick, or any of it. He's just in a weird mood because it's so damn hot, that's all.

Len just about manages to sell himself on that when Mick walks out of his bedroom, shirtless and dripping with sweat.

He must've been working out despite the heat, Len thinks, a little dazed all of a sudden. For some reason, that thought, as inane as it is, is the only thought Len can keep in his head. Everything else has gone a little distant, kinda fuzzy, but in a good sort of way. 

Mick’s shoulders flex as he walks, wiping his face down with a damp cloth that’s dripping, beads of liquid spilling down his face and his shoulders and running in little rivulets down over the planes of his chest –

Len’s having some trouble breathing. 

It’s probably just the heat. 

Mick’s jeans are slung low on his hips, just showing the curve, and the first button’s still undone.

Probably forgot to do it up after the girl left earlier. 

Len slumps down further on the couch. 

Stupid heat. His arms and legs feel like melted plastic. That’s probably why he feels so pissy. 

“We should do something,” Mick says, tossing the cloth to the side. 

“Sure,” Len drawls, stretching out the word like half-melted taffy. “What y’wanna do?”

“Dunno,” Mick says. “Something.” He shrugs expansively. “Maybe go out again, something like that.”

Len rolls his eyes. 

Mick thinks of himself as a simple man, with simple desires, easy enough to satisfy as long as he has food and a place to rest his head. 

Len knows, of course, that this is bullshit.

Mick isn't simple. Mick isn't easily satisfied. 

Mick wants to have and to hold, but rejects those things which regular men seek to have because he thinks that mere possession is insufficient for him; he needs total dominion or nothing at all. He thinks of himself as a little stupid, but disdains in other people the same stupidity he believes is deliberate in himself. He sees no value in material objects, yet glories in an excess of them. He likes to play with violence the way Len likes to play with jewelry, the way Len lets the long chains of tightly bound silver and gold chains fall through his fingers like rain, except Mick glories instead in the feeling of fist against flesh and nails against eyes and knees against gizzards – in hands around a soft, collapsing throat as life chokes and sputters out into nothingness. 

Mick would be very happy ruling the world, Len thinks, or at least a small corner of it, but he proclaims himself a man of no ambition. 

Mick thinks he's content with his beer and his whores and his money, but he's restless, pacing through the apartment, opening the fridge door and closing it again more to have something to do than actually looking for something to eat.

This is usually when Len gets up to interfere, to distract, to suggest something, to pin a goal in Mick's mind for later or to set him off now over something – something to keep him happy.

But it's hot, and Len's dissatisfied, and he doesn't move.

“We can go back to the bar,” Mick says, rifling in the fridge. “There were some nice girls there, new ones. We can get try ‘em out, something new.”

Len barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Mick and his thing for variety.

“Besides,” Mick adds, and Len can _hear_ the slow curling smile of anticipation in his low voice, “I wanna get laid.”

Len huffs. 

Of _course_ he does. Why is Len not surprised. It's like that's all Mick wants to do, nowadays. 

Somehow, though, that tiny little exhalation of breath is enough to get Mick’s attention, and he turns to look at Len with a contemplative expression.

Len slumps further into the couch.

“Huh,” Mick says slowly, thoughtfully. Len hates it when Mick gets thoughtful; he’s far too insightful. 

“It ain’t nothing,” he says automatically, barely able to get the energy up for the words. He can feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

“I think it is,” Mick says, and he closes the fridge and comes over to where Len’s standing. He’s not that much taller than Len anymore, when they’re both standing up, but when Len is all sprawled out over the couch the way he is, it makes it seem like Mick’s the giant he was when they first met. “You know, now that I think about it, they’re _all_ new to you, ain’t they? You haven’t been really going out with any of the girls, or bringing ‘em in, either.”

Len grunts. “Not in the mood,” he says shortly. “Nothing to it.”

Mick snorts.

Len looks up at him, big and tall and strong, the curves of his muscles well-defined even though he’s not holding them taut, the slight softness of his belly, the slightest hint of fat along the hips. Mick stands tall and shirtless and unashamed, like the world owes him something just for doing it the favor of existing, and Len loves him so much it hurts. 

“What?” Len asks.

“You’re in the mood,” Mick replies, and he steps forward until his legs are almost pressed up against the couch. “I remember being your age - you’re _always_ in the mood.” He nods down at Len, whose sprawled out position makes it pretty hard to hide the fact that he’s half-hard in his jeans the way it feels like he always is these days, because Mick’s not exactly wrong. Mick’s not that much older than Len, but somehow those few years still mean something when it comes to the way the world works for them. Len can’t wait for them to get old enough for the age difference to be nothing. 

Len would usually do something right about now – cover himself or turn away or something, embarrassment at his lack of self-control. But it’s hot and his skin is flushed and he thinks the place on his back where his shirt’s ridden up is stuck to the leather of the couch seats, and anyway he kind of likes it, lounging the way he is on the couch, legs spread out and back slouched down, head lolled back so he can look up at Mick, the way it’s almost like he’s laid out in front of Mick like a buffet or a demented game of Operation or something, and so he doesn’t move.

He barely gets up the energy to move his shoulders in a pathetic half-shrug.

“Well?” Mick asks, still standing there, knees pressed against the cushions, one leg between both of Len’s. “Regardless of what’s gotten into you - or what hasn't - at the very least, _I_ wanna get laid.”

Len flutters a hand. “I ain’t stopping you,” he says, feeling ornery and stubborn for no particular reason. “Ain’t getting in your way, neither. S’just too hot for me.”

Mick snorts.

Len expects Mick to leave, then, grab a shirt, go to the bar, find a whore and either stay there with her or bring her back here, the way he always does.

Instead, Mick reaches out and cups Len’s face with his hand. He’s always had big hands, so that no matter how big Len grows, Mick can always get his hand around him. His palm is blazing hot against Len’s already over-sensitive skin. 

“No, you’re not in the way,” he says, and his voice is low enough to shake in Len’s bones, and Len doesn’t know what he means. 

Doesn’t know what Mick means, right up until Mick’s thumb comes up to stroke over Len’s lips.

Len swallows, hard, his throat suddenly dry, suddenly hard as a rock even if it’s not what he thinks, even if Mick’s only thinking of asking Len if he wants to share a girl or something – they’ve never – Mick never even _suggested_ –

Mick doesn’t say anything. He just pushes a little with his thumb, insistent and unyielding the way he always is, and Len opens for him, letting that thumb come to rest heavy on his thumb, his lips rounding around it. 

“You’re not in the way at all,” Mick says, and there’s that savagery in his voice, fierceness of possession and ownership and _fuck_ Len loves him so much. “You ain't never gonna be in the way, and you know why? It's 'cause you’re _mine_. Ain’t that right, Lenny?”

Len doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to ruin this moment – he _is_ , he knows he is, heart and mind and body and soul, all Mick’s, and that fact makes him gladder than he ought to be – but he’s abruptly paralyzed with the fear that he’ll do something wrong, that he’ll open his stupid mouth and put his foot in it, drive Mick back to those girls instead of keeping Mick here with him the way he suddenly overwhelmingly wants to. 

So he doesn’t speak, just swipes his tongue around Mick’s thumb and gives a little pull, sucking on it, his eyes fixated on Mick above him. Len’s given head plenty of times before, usually in far less comfortable circumstances than this, and he knows how to make it seductive if he wants; learned his technique from harsh experience and the best whores he knows. But all of that knowledge flees him because this isn’t like that, those other experiences that hurt his knees and his jaw and left him tender and aching and unhappy.

This is _Mick_.

Finally helping himself to what he owns.

So Len just lies sprawled out there before him, passive in the intense heat of the day, and his only movement he makes is his tongue. Mick watches him do it, and smiles.

“Good boy,” Mick says, and Len shivers even in the terrible heat. 

God, the things he’d do for Mick, just to hear him say that. Fuck all of them, those others, the ones that think it’s _mocking_ him when they call him Rory’s dog, Rory’s bitch; Len will be all that and more, just as long as he’s Mick’s.

As long as Mick does this, standing close with his presence and his size and the heat of him, their only contact Mick’s hand on Len’s face but somehow more intimate than the full on home runs Len’s had with the few whores he did bother with.

And then that’s not the only contact, because Mick moves all of a sudden, settling down on Len’s legs, pulling his hand away in a sharp movement that makes Len’s eyes go wide with the abruptness of it.

Did he do something wrong? Should he have done more? Should he –

But no, Mick’s pushing Len’s thin shirt up, exposing his belly and his chest to the hot, humid air in the room, his wet thumb tracing patterns along Len’s stomach and making Len sigh and loll his head back again, all tension leaving his shoulders as he shivers beneath Mick.

“You’re hot,” Mick says, his voice steady as always. He’s not complimenting Len; he’s stating a fact. 

“It’s hot,” Len agrees. Ridiculously hot, absurdly hot – Mick’s balanced on his knees, pinning him down, and his hands are on him; Len doesn’t give a damn that his chest isn’t as sensitive as Mick is, that he doesn’t usually like his nipples being played with because it stings rather than pleases, because his skin is hot and red and sensitive and no matter where Mick touches him, it gets even hotter. 

Mick presses their lips together.

Len’s been kissed before, of course; whores like kissing as much as the next person, but Len’s never really seen the point of it all that much. Maybe because he’s never been kissed like this, less of a question and more of a demand, a statement – that this, too, is Mick’s, and maybe Mick didn’t take it before but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t always entitled to it. Doesn’t mean that he couldn’t change his mind and decide to take what belongs to him. 

The way he's doing now. 

They make out for what feels like forever. Len’s lips are wet and swollen and sore, his jaw littered with bruises and teeth-marks as Mick tries different things out, methodical in a way that he is when no one’s looking, not so much trying to see what Len most likes to have done to him than to see what Mick most likes doing and what reactions he likes best to elicit. His hands move constantly, up to press at Len’s nipples or skim his collarbone, down to pull down his pants and rub at his hipbone –Len’s still too skinny for Mick’s liking, he always is, his metabolism burning through the calories just a bit too fast like it’s racing to try to make up for years of not having enough as a kid, and Mick likes the parts of him that are a little softer than the rest: the slightest layer of padding on his hips, the very center of his belly, the curve of his ass. 

At some point, they’ve turned onto their sides, Len lying horizontally on the couch with Mick pressed down above him, pinning him into the couch, and Len’s sweating in earnest now, trapped between the sticky leather couch and Mick’s blazing hot frame, there in their blisteringly hot room like a sauna, with the only sound being the sucking sound of their lips on each other’s bodies and the slow, endless stutter of the fan. 

Len would usually be desperate by now, out of his mind, rutting like the selfish ass that he can usually admit that he is, but something about the overwhelming heat keeps him placid even though his cock’s as hard as it’s ever been. Mick’s been over that part of him, wrapped a hand around it to give it a few experimental tugs, but then he’d gone back to the rest of him, leaving Len to get what relief he can from the rest of what Mick’s doing and from rubbing up against Mick’s thick thigh like a dog in heat. 

Len can barely move the rest of his body. He feels like he’s melted, like all the thoughts he’s ever had have turned to liquid and dripped out of his brain along with his sweat, like all he’s good for is lying here, getting kissed and getting touched and moaning underneath Mick’s beautiful hands, pliant to Mick’s will even as he moves his hands almost aimlessly over Mick's body in return, touching where before he’s only looked. Mick’s shoulders, Mick’s chest, Mick’s stomach – from the position he’s in, he can’t easily reach lower than that, though he dearly longs to. He’s been dreaming of sucking Mick’s cock for years, now, uses it as his go-to fantasy, dreaming of kneeling before him in a shower – it’s almost always a shower for some reason, though the actual location of said shower changes, from juvie to prison to the crappy apartment Mick currently calls home – and taking him into his mouth as Mick runs soap over himself, watching as Mick’s carefully ordered shower routine is slowly but surely disrupted as he starts paying more attention to what Len’s doing, till he drops the soap and grabs for Len’s head.

Mick’s hands go down, low, into Len’s jeans and cup his ass. Len arches his back up as far as he can manage, trying to get some contact, and Mick draws Len’s jeans down further, shoving down past his knees, and then he sits up a little, looking down at Len with a smile that speaks of immense, smug satisfaction.

Len’s lying there, hot and sweating, his shirt pulled up to his collarbone and his jeans pulled down, Mick pinning his legs down, and he’s painfully aware of the sight he must make – his too-thin frame, the redness of his sensitized skin contrasting with the darkening bruises Mick’s left on him, Len’s cock jutting up – and he would blush if he had any blood left to spare. It’s embarrassing, having Mick look at him that way, look down at him like Len’s a masterpiece that he painted himself, like Len’s a feast laid out before him, like he’s pleased.

Like he’s _proud_.

“Good boy,” Mick says again, tracing a finger down from the center of Len’s chest to his navel. “Being so good for me. All ‘cause you’re mine.” 

And all the tension empties out of Len’s shoulders because that’s all he wants, isn’t it, to be good, good for Mick, _belonging_ to Mick the way he always has since the beginning, the way he always will. 

Mick leans down and kisses him again, and Len kisses back, giving himself over to Mick, Mick who he loves.

Then he jumps a little, skin protesting the sudden movement, because one of Mick’s hands is between his legs, now, ignoring his cock and pressing against his ass. 

“Shh,” Mick says, even as he pushes one of Len’s legs up and apart, pulling that leg out of Len’s jeans entirely so he can position it to give himself better access, his fingers pressing against Len’s hole without actually pushing in, slicked with lube Len never saw him grab. “Shh, it’s okay.”

He kisses Len again, swallowing Len’s incipient protests. Len’s never liked this sort of thing, for all the times he’s been touched with invasive hands and fingers and made to kneel; he’s managed to keep it at that, at least, though he's done just about everything else, had men between his legs or rubbing up against him, had their fingers in him, but it’s different, somehow, when it’s Mick’s fingers pushing into him, curling, making him feel good.

It does feel good and Len finds himself moaning into Mick’s mouth, trying to move a little to get more of the feeling, but quieting when Mick pushes him back down onto the couch, coaxing him back down until he’s pliant again, jeans still on one of his legs and the other pulled up high on the couch as Mick presses his lips on Len’s neck and braces himself on his hip, fingers swift and sure. 

It’s okay, this time, because it’s Mick. 

It’s okay because Len loves him and trusts him even when he knows he shouldn’t.

And after all, Len’s Mick’s, isn’t he? He belongs to him. So it’s okay if Mick wants a bit more than just kissing and rubbing together, if Mick wants to slip his fingers into Len, way eased with some slick he got from the table near the couch where they keep it for jerking off; Len likes the feeling, not invasive but exploring, Mick as methodical as ever as he alternates between stroking Len and moving his fingers in and out or across.

Then Len feels something else, Mick’s body shifting as he moves himself down and closer, and at first Len’s confused because it’s just more heat, more Mick, and it’s so hot, and then he realizes that Mick’s fingers are gone and he’s pressing a whole lot more against him. 

“Mick –” Len starts, suddenly nervous again, because he’s never done this, never gone quite this far with anyone; he was always able to keep them at fingers or offer his mouth. “I haven’t –”

“With anyone?” Mick rumbles, and he’s not pushing himself in, thank god, just rubbing his cock against Len’s slicked-up hole, the pressure wonderful and enticing and not enough to get Len there; Len wants more, he knows he does, but he thinks he wants the fingers back, not this next step.

Len shakes his head mutely. He’s not entirely sure of his answer – there’s a lot of things he’s forgotten, or chosen to forget – but it’s a good answer, because it makes Mick smile and kiss him again, and that makes Len happy. 

“Good,” Mick whispers against his lips, against his jaw, against his ear. “You’re so good for me, Lenny.”

And for that, Len’ll do anything. Len pushes up against Mick, lets himself be pushed down into the couch as Mick rocks against him, slow and self-controlled and perfect, and yes, this is what he wants. But Mick’s still bumping up against him, Len’s legs still spread for him, and Len swallows a little, but he can’t really be too nervous when Mick’s kissing him the way he is. Can’t really put up much of a protest because he’s not thinking now, he’s melted, all melted, melted from the heat and from his lust and because he’s Mick’s.

“Can I?” Mick asks, the first one to ever do so, hand wrapped around Len’s cock as he rocks against Len’s balls, making him shiver at the feel of the precome Mick’s spreading there. “You’re gonna let me, right, Len?”

Len opens his mouth, then closes it, still unsure.

“Just the tip, huh?” Mick says, and he’s so close to Len now, pressed up close and blazing hot. “You’ll let me go that far, at least, won’t you? You’ll let me put the tip in, just the tip, because it’ll feel so good; you’ll do that for me. You’re so good for me, Len – so good –”

Len nods, entranced, because he _is_ good despite all the times he’s been told that he’s bad, he’s good for Mick – only for Mick – and the next thing he knows Mick’s pushing into him. 

It’s not that different from the fingers – bigger, more pressure – and he tries to wiggle a little, unsure if he likes it, the big and blunt tip of Mick pushing inside of him, but it’s hot inside and out and Mick’s pressed up close and he’s not sure he has the energy to. He certainly doesn’t when Mick leans down and wraps his hand around Len’s cock again, holding it in his big, hot hand. 

Mick doesn’t do anything with it, though, which is infuriating; doesn’t jerk him off, doesn’t do anything, just leaves his hand there, so if Len wants something to happen, he’s got to do it himself. So Len moves a little, just a little, trying to get some friction, get some give, some pressure that’ll feel so good, and he realizes Mick’s game the second he does, because the position they’re in means that pushing himself forward almost means pushing himself _down_ , taking a little more of Mick in, and Len’s lips are dry.

“Mick,” he croaks.

He wants more, he knows he does, but he’s afraid.

Mick sees it and leans down to kiss the fear out of him. “You can do it,” he says, and he’s moving, then, moving his hand in blessed relief, moving the rest of him, too, pushing further in, sliding further in, Len feeling himself give in, Mick’s free hand maneuvering Len so that he’s just the way Mick wants him, feels Mick’s cock fill him up inside.

Len’s head lolls back. It’s so hot, hot in the room, hot outside, and hot inside, too, Mick stretching him inside the way he’s never been before; he feels full, except for when Mick pulls back a bit, and he uses his hands to pull Mick close again because he likes that feeling, likes being full even when it hurts a little from the sheer size of the other man. His legs are sore from stretching, his cock is hard enough to hurt, and he’s never felt as good – as wanted, as appreciated, as beloved, as _owned_ as he does now, with Mick inside of him and outside of him and kissing his neck and murmuring nice things, good things, calling Len his good boy, his boy, _his_. 

“You said,” Len pants, even as he raises his hips to meet Mick’s now rolling thrusts, pulling out almost to the tip and then pushing himself all the way back in, until his balls are pressed against Len’s ass, “you said – the tip –”

And Mick laughs and kisses him and says, “You’re mine,” as if that answers the question, which Len supposes it does because it’s good, it feels good, it feels so good to belong to Mick like this, the way Mick wants him. He’s getting fucked in earnest now, Mick pulling his legs apart and curling Len around so that he can hammer down into him easier; it hurts, the way Mick’s doing it, selfish, even though he’s making an effort to go slow for Len’s sake, but Len’s never minded getting hurt if it gets him closer to Mick. 

“I want you to jerk off,” Mick whispers in Len’s ear, a command, but one Len’s too overwhelmed, too sensitive, too hot to obey, so Mick takes him in hand himself. “You’re gonna get off on my cock, Lenny, knowing that you’re mine, that I’m doing this to you, you’re gonna think of this every time you get off – you’re gonna think of this every time you put your hand on yourself, every single time; you’re gonna finger yourself and it’s not gonna be enough, you’re not gonna be able to get off without my cock in you anymore – you’re gonna come begging me for more of this, fall on your knees and beg, _plead_ with me, wanting me so bad that you’re ruined for anything else –”

“Yes,” Len says, Mick’s hand speeding up on him. “Yes.” And he can see it happening, too, because he can’t imagine anything better than this, any fantasy that could hold up to it, can’t imagine himself without that feeling of fullness, the way it hurts but also feels good, without feeling Mick around him and inside of him and it’s so _good_. He’ll work his hands until he’s chafing and he won’t be able to get off because he’s Mick’s, devoted to him, unable to imagine anything but him. “Mick – please –”

He doesn’t even know what he’s asking, but Mick does, because Mick knows him, and Mick laughs. “Good boy,” he says. “You can come now.”

Len’s coming before he even finishes the sentence. He’s never needed _permission_ before, but he must have been waiting for it, subconsciously, because Mick’s his and he’s Mick’s and he loves being owned by Mick the way he would hate and resent anyone else. 

Mick gives a few more thrusts even after Len’s done, shaking and empty and overwhelmed, and it hurts a little more now with Len even more sensitive than before, but then Mick’s coming, hot and liquid, and Len would feel filthy except for the fact that it’s Mick. 

And then Mick pulls out and lies down on Len, hot, pinning him down, and Len’s eyes fall half-closed for the heat. 

Mick’s stroking him, long passes of his hand over Len’s body, and it’s not even sexual anymore.

Just possessive.

“I think we’ve got a good alternative to the bar,” Mick muses, hand moving lazily. “Don’t you think?”

Len can’t even speak right now. 

“After all,” Mick continues, “why waste money on hookers when I’ve got you? You’re mine.”

“Yeah,” Len finally says, through dry lips, already fading into sleep; he’s gonna be so sore in the morning, but he doesn’t mind it in the slightest. “Yes. All yours.”

“Yeah,” Mick echoes, smug and satisfied, and it’s the last thing Len hears as he falls asleep. “All mine.”


End file.
